


Kick Back, Relax

by EdgarAllenPoet



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, On Hiatus, Physical Disability, Shiro and keith are adopted brothers, Trans Character, Transphobia, alternate universe- martial arts, broganes, everyone does taekwondo, he/him pronouns for pidge, people can be jerks, poorly described martial arts techniques
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2018-11-09 17:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11109438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet
Summary: Keith is new to tournaments but already winning gold, Lance has been competing for years and really doesn't think this is fair at all, and Pidge and Shiro are fighting to compete in the divisions they both belong in."The real pity of it all was that Lance used to like Fall Out Boy. "





	1. Chapter 1

Shiro was scared. 

 

Anyone who knew him would have noticed, despite Shiro's stubborn intention to insist the opposite.  Keith could see it in the unshifting set of his jaw, his hand curled into a fist at his side, the way his eyes darted around the crowded room before them. 

 

He'd been scared from the moment he'd made his decision, but then again, who wouldn't be?  It had been six months after his accident before he'd been able to return to their school at all, between the hospital stay, the healing time, and the months of physical therapy.  He came back to practicing earlier than Keith had expected him to, and just as quickly after that, he'd made his decision. 

 

Going back to competing couldn't have been an easy choice. Going against the direct orders of their instructor couldn't have been any easier.  When Master Sendak said, in a voice somehow sterner than the one he used for everyday matters, that Shiro should register to the special abilities division, that he had no place in open competition anymore, Keith could tell from the look in Shiro’s eyes that he already planned on disobeying. 

 

So yeah, it made sense that Shiro was terrified.  Five time World Champion, returning to tournaments at the first event of the year, acting under insubordination and probably signing himself up for failure.  People stared at him everywhere he went, and he was at a serious disadvantage.

 

Keith didn't have as good of a reason to be scared.  That didn't mean he was feeling any more brave.

 

He'd never done a tournament before, never saw a reason to.  His parents had put him into taekwondo shortly after adopting him, hoping it would connect him to his Korean heritage and help him a bit with his social skills. Keith had been seven, Shiro had been ten. The older boy took to it like a natural, going to every tournament they could drive to and flying through the ranks. 

 

Keith was good too, just as good as his brother, even.  But he didn't have the same drive, same charisma, same 'eager to please' attitude that made Shiro succeed in competition.  He stuck close to home and cheered for his brother, but he never set foot in the ring himself. 

 

Until today.  Keith had registered for four events- forms, weapons, sparring, and XMA.  X-treme martial arts was the only event he was really interested in.  It was the only place in competitive taekwondo where you could really show creativity.  Everything else was strict rules and set routines, exact techniques in order and memorized.  XMA was different.  Keith had watched Shiro do XMA for years, had practiced the same tricks off on the side.

 

Months ago, when Shiro announced his return to competition, Keith said he’d go with him.

 

He’d been training that entire time.  Keith still wasn’t sure he was ready. 

 

“Keith Kogane!” the center judge announced, reading his name off the clipboard in his hand.  Keith’s stomach flipped over nervously.  He glanced at Shiro, who shot him an encouraging grin and a head nod, then gripped his weapons tighter and walked into the ring. 

 

He was using kamas, which were sickle looking weapons with short sticks and curved blades.  He held them tightly, walked to his position in the ring, and waited for the music to start.  He was using Shiro’s amp, the same one he’d been lugging around since he was twelve years old.  Back then the thing had weighed as much as Keith had.  Today Keith had carried it in with one arm. 

 

They’d grown up doing this, he reminded himself.  There was nothing to freak out about.  He’d worked too damn hard to panic and run.

 

Then the music started, and the form began, and Keith didn’t have time to think anymore.

 

His song choice was probably lame and cliche, but Keith couldn’t have cared less.  It started kind of slow, and he used that time to manipulate the weapons into a series of spins and strikes and stabs.  He twirled them expertly through his fingers, thrust them out in front of him into imaginary victims, and had a few simple kicks for filler.  He used a skipping butterfly kick to keep up with the speed of the lyrics. 

 

When the song hit the bridge, he found himself into the center of the ring, slowly raising his weapons above his head in an ‘X.’ 

 

Through the amp, Fall Out Boy dragged out the words, “ _ My songs knooooow what you did in the daaaaark…. _ ” 

 

Keith threw his head back and screamed, the same way he’d seen a hundred other competitors do in XMA.  It was a common thing, and the whole point was to be dramatic and get into it.  He couldn’t help but feel incredibly self-conscious and stupid when he did it, but it didn’t last long, because the music picked up and then he was flying. 

 

His first move was a back handspring, followed by a twin front kick.  He’d practiced the front kicks over and over, on trampolines and on hard floors.  Shiro could still do them, was still an  _ expert _ at them.  Keith had reached the point that when he leapt up and kicked both legs straight out to the sides, punching his hands down between them, he was up a good four feet in the air.

 

He was a blur of movement after that, thoughts fading away as his muscle memory took over.  Spins, flying kicks, and lightning fast stabs.  His most challenging move was a backflip, which required him to kick his legs straight out instead of pulling them in, making a perfect arching kick through the air while his head was barely inches from the floor.  

 

Around a minute and thirty seconds in, there was a the sound of a match being struck in the song.  In time with that, Keith took hooked one weapon’s blade with the other, whipped it, and sent the one hurtling up into the air.  He spun, caught it, and flew back into action again. 

 

By the time he was done, he was shaky and panting in the middle of the ring, chest heaving as he stood at attention and waited for his score.

 

A seven, an eight, and a nine.  Holy shit. 

 

Seven’s were good.  Getting straight sevens at a tournament was the equivalent of passing with a B.  Eight’s were excellent.  You didn’t get eights unless you earned it, but nines?  Nines were the score everyone dreamed of.  Those were the scores that got you to World Championships.  Shiro used to get straight nines consistently, but at your first tournament, competing for the first time? 

 

That didn’t happen.  Keith was a little overwhelmed by that. 

 

He bowed out of the ring, wearing a beaming smile from ear to ear, and was immediately tackled when he stepped out of the taped line.

 

“You did so good!” Shiro yelled, shaking him.  He pulled Keith back in by the back of his uniform and hugged him again, and Keith protested weakly, unable to keep himself from laughing. 

 

The next person was going through their routine in the ring, music blasting.  It was some kind of dubstep thing.  It was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the people talking around him. 

 

“ _ Oh my God, is that Takashi Shirogane?”  _

 

_ “From Garrison Academy?? I thought he quit!”  _

 

_ “That kid just did, like, three of his moves.  Is he training people now?”  _

 

_ “You think he’s competing again?”  _

 

_ “Gonna be hard.  He lost an arm.” _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Excuse him,” Pidge apologized immediately for Lance’s language. “He’s suffered a head injury.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously existing chapters 2-4 have been removed and will be rewritten. This fic is getting a makeover, because I have some new ideas for where I want it to go. A crash course on taekwondo can be found at the bottom.

The real pity of it all was that Lance used to like Fall Out Boy. Not anymore though. Not after mister out-of-uniform-haircut had ruined it for him. First, he waltzed into the fucking XMA ring and knocked Lance right out of second place. Then the jerkface had stolen first in traditional forms, got bronze in weapons (Lance got fourth), and put Lance on a fucking gurney in sparring.   
Lance could admit that the last bit was at least partially his own fault. No one was good at everything, so when the long-haired nightmare had kicked ass in forms, weapons, and XMA, Lance had reasoned that he couldn’t be training hard in sparring as well, and he’d let his guard down.

That, and he was exhausted from sparring Hunk, so nicknamed because of his stature, which was as tall and wide as a mountain and damn near immovable. Hunk was one of Lance’s best friends out of the ring, but in the ring, sparring him was like running headfirst at a rhino.

So he was tired, and he wasn’t taking it seriously, and Kogane had spun away from a round kick so fast that all Lance had seen was a blur. Then, in a series of very fast, very unfortunate events, his heel had caught Lance on the side of the neck, right under his ear. 

It caught the bottom of his sparring helmet and launched it, and Lance had a split second to imagine his wayward helmet hitting an unsuspecting master in the head before he hit the floor.

At least, Lance assumed he hit the floor. The only alternative was Kogane catching him, or someone leaping in with superhuman reflexes and sweeping him into their arms. He actually hoped that neither of those things happened. There was a lot more dignity in hitting the mat. Like a man.

Either way, when Lance woke up he was on a gurney in a mysterious room. The walls were fabric, and the background noise was deafening, and a paramedic was saying, “You with us this time?” in a way that sounded both friendly and like she was laughing at him.

“Huh?” he asked, because while she told him that he’d woken up twice between getting kicked and waking up there, he didn’t remember any of it. He laid there patiently through her questions about the year and the president and where he thought he was, just then. 

She said he might not remember getting kicked and going down. Lance kind of wished that were the case.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled after a while, pushing himself up to sit and ignoring the look on her face as she said he should stay laying down. 

“I’m supposed to be watching someone compete,” he complained as she forced a cup of water into his hands and shook her head.

“Is your instructor here?” she asked him. “Protocol says we release you into his care.” Lance couldn’t help but roll his eyes. 

“No ma’am,” he answered, Master Iverson had stopped coming to tournaments years ago, after a falling out with a colleague that had all but disgraced him. The animosity was strong, and Lance found it best to not mention what school he was from, for the sake of his own social status. 

He was starting to worry he’d be trapped there forever. Even as he was filling out his personal information on the medical report he’d been given, the medic was eying him with a suspicion that suggested he was going to try and make a run for it. 

He was starting to worry he’d be trapped there forever, when a certain tiny hurricane burst its way through the curtains of the first aid center. 

“Young man, you can’t go in there!” a medic outside called as Pidge stormed over to Lance’s cot. He had two bags with him, both Lance’s and his own, as well as a bo staff, a sword, and Lance’s runaway sparring helmet hooked onto his belt. The amount of gear he was carrying probably weighed more than he did, considering Pidge was about five-foot-two and weighed a hundred and ten soaking wet. He dropped it all when he reached Lance, sagging in relief, and the crossed his arms over his chest. 

“McClain, what the actual fuck. I was in the middle of my weapons form when I saw them carrying you away on a gurney.” 

That language was unbecoming of a student, but the medic didn’t mention it. Instead she said, “Who are you?” 

Pidge looked up at her and held a hand out in a strange sort of greeting. “I’m this dummy’s ride home,” he lied. As it was, Lance was Pidge’s ride home, and he was starting to wonder how they were going to handle that. He felt rather dizzy, and a little sick. He probably shouldn’t be trusted to drive.

That was enough to convince the medic, though. She released Lance with a stern warning to go to the hospital, as well as an icepack stuck to the side of his head, a bottle of water, and an empty barf bag (“Just in case”). 

Pidge picked up all the gear again, arranging the straps very carefully and wobbling a little under the weight. Still, he walked out of there with all the determination in the world, and Lance found himself swaying like a willow and unsure of where his feet were exactly as he followed after his teammate. 

It was only outside of the medic tent that Lance realized the state of his appearance. A passing master looked him up and down with a look of disapproval in his eyes, before he notice the ice pack and gave Lance a pitying half-smile. Lance looked down at himself and realized the situation. 

His dobak top was still on- technically; barely. It wasn’t covering his arms or shoulders or torso like one would expect a jacket to. Instead, it was pooled around his waist, held in place by the belt tied around his hips, sleeves dangling down by his knees. Lance’s white t-shirt was stained yellow with sweat with brown speckles of blood on the shoulder, which reminded Lance that the medic said he’d bitten his tongue on the way down, somehow drawing blood despite the mouth guard they were all required to wear. 

His ear was starting to ache from the ice pack. He was still wearing his foot pads and one sparring glove, and he just hoped the rest of it was in the gear bag Pidge was carrying. Which reminded him-

“Here, let me get that,” he said, and was thoroughly ignored as Pidge lead them over to a spot against the wall, where they would be out of the way. He dropped everything into a heap and sagged back against the wall, bowstaff falling with a clatter and trying to roll away. Lance stopped it with his foot and damn near fell over. Pidge shook his head. 

“We’re doing blocking drills next time we practice,” Pidge threatened. It was his way of lightening the mood, Lance knew. You could fix any mistake with training, turn every failure into a learning experience. Lance would appreciate it on a normal day, but his black belt attitude was dwindling under the current circumstances.

“How are we going to get home?” Pidge asked, when Lance didn’t say anything. Lance sighed and sat down heavily, jarring him a bit and making his head ache. Fuck. 

“I don’t know.” 

“I can’t drive stick shift, Lance,” Pidge pointed out, as if he didn’t already know. “And yeah, you promised to teach me, but now is probably not the time. Besides, I only have my driver’s permit, and there’s probably laws against driving with someone who’s incapacitated in the passenger seat, and I-” 

“Hey,” a different voice interrupted, and Lance closed his eyes for a second to dig up the last reserves of his patience before looking up at their guest.

“Yes sir?” he asked politely, squinting up at the interrupter, who was probably stopping by to scold him for not being in proper uniform or something. He squinted up at him, recognition setting in slowly, and then leapt to his feet like his seat had caught fire. “Holy shit, you’re Takashi Shirogane,” he said, mouth hanging open until Pidge reached over and socked his arm. Hard. 

“Excuse him,” Pidge apologized immediately for Lance’s language. “He’s suffered a head injury.”

A playful smile graced Shirogane’s lips as he tilted his head to the side. “I noticed. I actually came over to ask if you’re alright?” 

Lance found himself nodding, his brain filled with fog and his ears roaring with static. Takashi Shirogane was his hero. Lance and Hunk used to duck out of practice and scorekeeping to sit at the edge of the older boys’ XMA rings just to watch his form. Lance had borrowed his father’s video recorder and tried to teach himself the tricks during open mats. He’d picked bo staff as a weapon just because Shirogane did it. 

Ever since he’d first seen Shirogane compete as a fifteen year old black belt at District Championships, Lance had idolized him. His twelve year old self hadn’t been able to shut up about the guy, and Lance was mostly certain that was why his family wasn’t the least bit surprised when Lance came out to them as bisexual in high school. 

He’d been a little bit in love, even if Shirogane was from the Marmora Academy, which was huge and wealthy and full of stuck up perfectionists. Lance hated the school, but his childhood crush on Shiro had turned into healthy admiration.

And now Takashi Shirogane was talking to him. Lance couldn’t find words.

“He’s fine,” Pidge answered when Lance didn’t. “His skull is pretty thick. It takes more than that to hurt him.”

“Shut up,” Lance said, once again showing excellent manners and respect. Fucking hell. The older black belt laughed. 

He held out his hand then, and Lance dropped his ice pack just to shake it. His hand was frozen and clammy and Lance hated himself just a little. 

“I’m Shiro,” he introduced himself. “From Marmora Academy.” 

“My name’s Lance,” Lance answered dumbly, and promptly forgot what else he was supposed to say. Pidge nudged him out of the way and shook Shiro’s hand himself. 

“Pidge. We’re from Garrison.” As the word left Pidge’s mouth, Lance wanted to strangle him. Shiro would surely cringe and walk away at that, the reputation of their master lurking over them like a polluting cloud and urging people away. 

Instead of leaving, Shiro grinned yet again, amusement in his eyes. “Master Iverson, right?” he asked, and Lance nodded. “His forms are legendary. He used to be famous for them, I’ve heard. Had a team of world champions.” 

He didn’t ask ‘What happened?’ He was too polite to, but it was a fair question. The Garrison hadn’t had a world champ student in nearly ten years, and Lance was ashamed that their competition team had five students on a good day. Today it was just Lance and Pidge- a black belt who didn’t know how to block his fucking head, and a junior who couldn’t even get himself placed in the correct competition ring. 

Their reputation was kind of humiliating. 

“Your poom-sae was good, by the way,” Shiro added quickly. “I can tell you’re Iverson’s student. You guys are known for really powerful hand techniques.” 

That was a strange observation to make, and not something Lance thought about too often. All he was really aware of were the faults. His kicks weren’t vertical, his balance tended to shake, and he couldn’t really stop his techniques on a dime the way he saw better competitors do. 

He wanted to learn their secrets. His form was fine for traditional poom-sae, sure, but competition poom-sae was fancier. Flashier. And Lance was painfully aware that he wasn’t good enough yet.

“Thanks,” he answered weakly, at Pidge’s nudging elbow. Shiro frowned, and Lance found himself wishing the floor would swallow him and get him out of there. 

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” he asked. Lance felt dizzy. Pidge sighed loudly next to him. 

“He’s a little shaky,” he answered, scratching at his shaggy hair that hung just barely above his uniform collar. “We’re actually trying to figure out how to get home, right now. He was my ride, but I can’t drive stick shift, and I don’t really trust him with heavy machinery.” 

Shiro nodded grimly. “I know how to drive stick, but I probably couldn’t manage anymore.” He moved his left arm, and that was the first time Lance noticed that the flapping uniform sleeve didn’t have an arm in it. How did that happen? When did that happen? 

He tried to think of a polite way to ask when Shiro snapped the fingers on his other (erm, only) hand. “My brother can help,” he said. “Hang tight, I’ll go ask him, okay? He should be just about done getting his medals right now.” 

Since they weren’t going to turn down such a nice gesture, Pidge agreed that they’d wait while Shiro ran back off into the crowd. Lance let himself sag back against the wall and sink to the floor. “Am I hallucinating?” he asked Pidge, who chuckled cryptically and didn’t answer. 

Lance needed to find some better friends.

He knew there were rules against sleeping with a head injury, but Lance was willing to risk a coma just this once. He was so tired. He let his eyelids fall down all on their own and lolled his head down against his shoulder, and it felt like only seconds later when he was being nudged awake again. 

“Hey,” Pidge snapped. “How long have you been asleep? Oh my God.” 

Lance didn’t have an answer for him, and he didn’t have much time to think about it before his attention was drawn away. Standing in front of him, in all of his glory, was Shiro. One arm or not, he was beautiful, and he towered over Lance in his position on the floor. 

Next to him, though, was the real kicker. Lance scowled and snapped, “What are you doing here?” at Kogane, who was wearing three medals around his neck and an amazingly stupid head of helmet hair. 

“Lance, Pidge, this is my little brother,” Shiro said, clapping his hand onto one of Kogane’s shoulders. “He volunteered to help you guys out.” 

Lance would rather walk, actually.

“You’re a life saver,” Pidge chirped, damning Lance to hell. “You ready to go? Let’s get out of here.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Keith waited until Shiro threw him a shrug and lumbered towards the door before following, heart hammering in his throat and skin feeling tight. It had been a long day. He wasn't in the mood to meet strangers."

Lance’s truck was a tiny Ford Ranger that was a year older than Keith was.  It didn’t have a backseat, so they piled up their competition gear in the bed of the truck and squeezed into the bench seat.  Keith had changed in the parking lot, trading his uncomfortable canvas uniform for a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt.  The air was hot and muggy and Keith wasn’t staying in that monkey suit any longer than he had to.  

 

Pidge had changed as well, but they’d done so in the bathroom of the convention center, keeping their white dobak pants but exchanging their top for a hoodie.  Keith wasn’t sure how they weren’t sweating to death. 

 

It was just then, ten minutes into their drive home, that Keith realized he didn’t know what Pidge  _ was _ exactly.  Taekwondo uniforms had the uncanny ability of disguising your gender, especially in people as tiny and androgynous as Pidge.  Keith had spent most of his childhood being called “ma’am” and “young lady” and sulking about it. 

 

Not wanting to make that same mistake, Keith cleared his throat- scratchy from all the day’s yelling- and asked, “Hey, um.  I don’t mean to be rude, but, uh.  What are your pronouns?”

 

_ Wow _ , he scolded himself.  Smooth, Kogane.  Real smooth.  This was why he didn’t talk to people.  

 

He didn’t know what response he was expecting, but it wasn’t the 100 watt smile Pidge shot him.  “He, him,” Pidge answered.  Then said, “Thanks.  I assume the same for you?” 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Cool.” 

 

Keith was saved from deciding whether or not to say anything else by Pidge burying his elbow in Lance’s side and shouting, “Hey!”

 

Lance jolted awake, jumping so hard his knee smacked against the glove box and made it pop open. 

 

They were crammed pretty tight, like sardines, in the cab of Lance’s truck, and Keith was really regretting letting Shiro talk him into this.  But of course Shiro wanted to help them.  Shiro was a good person like that; a model black belt.  He was all about courtesy and honor and sacrifice.  He bought into all the doctrine that came with their rank. 

 

Keith bought into it too, to an extent.  He didn’t think it was  _ bad _ to be a good person.  He wasn’t some kind of jerk.  But that didn’t mean he was happy about being stuck in a tiny truck with no air conditioning and a guy who spent every waking minute glaring daggers at him. 

 

Even so, he had given Lance a concussion, so it hadn’t been hard for Shiro to guilt trip him into this impromptu road trip.  

 

It was a good thing Lance drove a truck, since there’d been plenty of room to store all of their gear.  The bed of their truck held all three sparring gear bags, and two uniforms- Pidge’s balled up in a reusable grocery tote, Keith’s hung nicely in a uniform bag.  They’d put Shiro’s bo staff back there as well, since it was annoying to drive around with it sticking out the back window.  They’d deal with that again on their own way home.  Pidge’s bo staff was back there too, along with a car seat, and it was all strapped down with a tarp and a couple of cinder blocks.

 

The truck was a little cluttered, overflowing with trashy eighties pop cassette tapes and half drunk water bottles.  There was half of a wood board on the floor at Lance’s feet and a pair of running shoes, along with some stretching bands, a handful of granola bars, and a children’s jacket that was far too small to be Lance’s.  A hula girl bobbled on the dash, and a rosary hung from the rearview mirror.  Keith let his arm rest outside the window as they tutted along in the far right lane and made their way down the interstate, the old truck not willing to go much faster than it already was. 

 

“You’re supposed to stay awake,” Pidge scolded, jabbing at Lance with pointy fingers and knocking his knee against the gear shift.  Keith reached out to steady it, clutching and shoving it back into fifth, out of neutral. 

 

“I’m  _ tired _ ,” Lance whined. 

 

“You’re being a baby.” 

 

The glare Lance sent Pidge after that was legendary, and when he caught Keith looking his lip actually lifted up in a sneer.  Keith redirected his gaze onto the highway.  He should not have to put up with this brat. 

 

Lance hadn’t bothered changing out of his uniform, only switching out his sparring pads for a pair of flip flops.  His dobak top was crumpled around his waist, belt still firmly in place.  It was tattered around the knot, white showing through under the black, showing how many times it had been tied and untied.  He’d pushed the sleeves of his t-shirt up over his shoulders, showing off surprisingly toned arms and tan skin.  He stuck his tongue out at Pidge and slumped, kicking his feet up onto the dash with uncomfortably bent knees and tightly crossed arms. 

 

“Fall asleep and I’m smacking you,” Pidge snapped.  Keith saw a sign for a rest stop. 

 

“Let’s get coffee,” he offered. 

 

Pidge said, “I love you,” at the same time as Lance said, “Pass,” and they exchanged a glare that showed the age of their friendship.  

 

“I’m  _ broke, _ ” Lance explained, obviously talking to Pidge and not Keith.  “I emptied my card on gas to get us here.” 

 

Keith glanced down at the fuel gage and bit his lip.  “You’re running low, actually,” he confessed, and averted his eyes as Lance said  _ something _ in Spanish and kicked the dashboard hard enough to pop the glove box open again. 

 

“You’re on a roll today,” Pidge said, clicking his tongue and waving his hand towards the exit, signalling for Keith to take it.  “Mama McClain would not approve.”

 

“She doesn’t need to find out,” Lance gritted back.  “Can you spot me?  Please?  I get my check on Thursday.” 

 

“I got it,” Keith mumbled, downshifting to third and lifting his hips to dig his wallet out of his pocket.  “My parents have a gas card.” 

 

Lance muttered something else, and whatever it was was rude enough to earn himself a smack from Pidge.  Lance yelped, and Pidge murmured, “Good,” under his breath, and Keith kept his mouth shut and wished he knew what ‘rico cabrón’ meant.  

  
  
  


…

  
  


Keith parked in front of the house that Lance pointed to, and he hadn’t even shifted into first when Pidge clambered over Lance’s lap and hopped out the passenger door. 

 

“About time!” he cheered, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back, apparently happy that the two and a half hour car ride was over.  Keith still had another hour until he reached home.  He wondered if he could get Shiro to drive while he took a nap.  Probably not.  It was a miracle Shiro had driven to Lance’s house in the first place.  He didn’t like to, anymore.  Not since his accident. 

 

Technically he wasn’t supposed to drive without a licensed driver in the passenger seat, like he was back to a permit again.  Just in case.  Just an extra set of hands to take the wheel and compensate.

 

They didn’t really talk about it. 

 

Speak of the devil, Shiro parked on the curb behind them, and Keith popped his door open and climbed out.  Lance’s house was a modest two story in a crowded neighborhood.  There were two cars parked in the driveway, and chalk drawings on the sidewalk.  A tricycle sat turned over on the front lawn, along with one of those plastic toddler slides from Fisher Price.  A generic swing set was visible in the backyard, and a dog could be heard barking somewhere nearby. 

 

“Come on inside,” Lance said, fishing his gear out of the bed of the truck and lugging it towards the house, but only after he threw his now melted ice pack into the truck bed to be abandoned until further notice.  Pidge left his stuff in the truck as he ran across the front yard, so Keith figured his own was safe for the time being.  

 

He waited until Shiro threw him a shrug and lumbered towards the door before following, heart hammering in his throat and skin feeling tight.  It had been a long day.  He wasn't in the mood to meet strangers.

 

Lance’s house was as loud as the convention center had been.  Sounds of a video game in the living room and a radio down the hall mixed together in cacophony.  A crowd of small children tumbled around near the TV, playing with G.I. Joes and rubber lizards.  Adult voices could be heard somewhere else as well, but not knowing the house, Keith had no idea where they were coming from.  

 

As soon as they stepped inside, Lance added to the mix, voice ringing despite the headache he’d complained of earlier.  “We’re home!” he shouted, dropping his bag in the living room and accepting a waist high hug from what looked like a much younger version of himself.  “Mama, I have friends!”

 

“No you don’t!” one of the children yelled out gleefully.  Pidge didn’t bother concealing his laughter as he wandered off down the hallway.

 

A toddler, who had been sitting on the couch poking mindlessly at a calculator and watching the older kids play, climbed down carefully and waddled over to them.  Lance immediately picked the child up and set them on his hip, then motioned for everyone to follow as he walked down the hallway, deeper into the house.  

 

Someone who must have been Lance’s mother greeted them in the kitchen with a boisterous voice and smile that matched her son’s.  “Boys!  How was the competition?” She pulled Lance in by the back of his neck and planted a kiss on his forehead, then shook the hand Shiro politely held out to her. 

 

“Everyone did their best,” Shiro answered.  “It’s nice to meet you.  I’m Shiro, and this is my brother, Keith.”  

 

“I’m Lance’s mother, as I’m sure you’ve figured out,” Mrs. McClain said, then clapped her hands.  Keith noticed Lance cringe just slightly.  His head must have still been bothering him.  The small child he was holding started to squirm just then, and Lance set them down while his mother spoke.  “Are you all staying for dinner then?” she asked.  

 

Shiro glanced back at Keith, who was doing his best to convey the message ‘ _ don’t make me _ ’ without being impolite.  Luckily, Shiro got the message. 

 

“We ought to get home to our own parents,” he answered, then clapped his hand on Keith’s shoulder and squeezed.  “We just wanted to make sure Lance got home alright after what happened at the tournament today.”  

 

Lance’s eyes grew wide as the words left Shiro’s mouth, but it was too late to stop him.  Mrs. McClain whirled around with a grace that Coach Ulaz would have been proud of. 

 

“What happened at the tournament today?” she said, and Lance said, “Nothing,” as Pidge said, “He got a concussion.” 

 

Just like that, Pidge hopped off the counter he’d been sitting on and waltzed past Shiro and Keith.  “Come on, I’ll walk you out,” he said, while Mrs. McClain ushered Lance to sit down at the kitchen table and the two started arguing quite loudly, Spanish and English mixing together and becoming indecipherable.  

 

When they were sitting in the car a few minutes later, pulling away from the McClain residence and glancing back at Pidge waving from the sidewalk, Shiro shook his head and grinned. 

 

“That was nice.  Very homey.” 

 

“You’re crazy,” Keith said, and he turned up the music and stepped on the gas.  He couldn’t help but agree.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tournament in two weeks," Pidge said, nodding gravely and pulling a helmet on over his unruly floof of hair. "Gotta train to kick Kogane's ass."

Lance was not having the best day ever.  To start, his preschool class had been wildly misbehaved earlier that day, and it was never good to start off a work day with screaming three year olds.  Sometimes Lance wondered why Iverson even allowed three year old students, but then again, the school owner didn't have to deal with them.  That was Lance's job. 

Anyways, he started the work day off with screaming three year olds, and that wouldn't have been so bad if the rest of the day hadn't followed suit.  A student’s mom bit his head off for not letting their child test for their next belt early, which was out of his control.  A brand new white belt accidentally kicked Lance straight between the legs in over-enthusiastic glee (a four year old had nailed him in the shin earlier, too, mid tantrum).  

Meanwhile, the middle schoolers in his junior black belt class had been sarcastic little monsters, rolling their eyes when he tried to reinforce protocol and whining through the entire work out. 

Lance could sound strict when he wanted to, damn it.  His 'you've crossed the line' voice was something he'd learned straight from his mother, and it was terrifying if he did say so himself.  That didn't mean he liked  _ using it. _  In fact, he considered it a good day when he didn't  _ have _ to use it.  He was the  _ fun _ instructor, damn it.  Leave the 'tearing you a new one' bit to Master Iverson.

To top it all off, he'd decided to work out along with his adult students during the very last class of the evening.  By the time nine p.m. rolled around, Lance was cranky, sore, and smelled like he'd been stranded in the Mojave desert for a good while.

That, of course, was when Pidge dragged his gear bag onto the mat and said, "Alright, let's go." 

Lance slumped back bonelessly against a kicking bag and whined, and okay, yeah.  He understood where the junior black belts had been coming from.  That didn't mean it was acceptable, but yeah, he got it. 

"Don't be a pussy," Pidge snapped at him.  There were very few people in the school this late- all of them adult students well into middle age, who simply chuckled at Pidge's comment instead of getting riled up.  Regardless, Lance threw a glance around the small building, keeping his eyes peeled for young ears.  

Being professional on the mat was very important to Master Iverson. 

Fortunately, there were no young ears to be found, and Iverson was locked firmly behind the door of his office.  They could do whatever they wanted. 

 

"Come on, Mr. McClain," Jeffery said from the chairs.  The adult student was a thirty-seven year old correctional officer with three kids and a nice car, who joined the sport to aid his flexibility and had a devastating round kick. "Show us what you're made of."

"Yeah!" agreed a female student with a green belt and perfectly painted toe nails. She taught yoga at the YMCA and could kick all of their asses at planking competitions.  

And, well, Lance had people to impress.  Besides, they had a limited window of time to practice.  The mat was small, fitting thirty-students at most and only containing one sparring ring.  If they wanted to use the space, they had to do it early before classes started or late at night.

He heaved another great sigh before shoving off the bag and grabbing his gear from where it was stashed against the wall.  "Okay," he agreed.  "But you're going down." 

 

"Tournament in two weeks," Pidge said, nodding gravely and pulling a helmet on over his unruly floof of hair.  "Gotta train to kick Kogane's ass." 

"Preach, hermanito."  Pidge wrinkled his nose up at the pet name, something Lance had given him a few years back when he'd first come out.  He acted like it annoyed him, but Lance hadn't missed the way he'd smiled shyly at the sentiment the first few times.  He wasn't about to stop now. 

 

Besides, Lance was the youngest of his siblings.  He'd spent his whole childhood being called by that pet name and never got to use it on anyone else.  His tiny nieces and nephews had pet names of their own, now, but Pidge would  _ always _ count as Lance's little brother. 

 

"Got all your equipment on, right?" he asked, tapping his cup through his pants the way he did to remind the kids ("boys are you sure you have  _ all  _ of your gear on?"), but for him and Pidge it was code.  'You're not wearing your binder right now, right?' he was asking.  

 

Pidge strapped on his gloves and nodded.  "Good to go." 

 

Pidge sparred like a hellion, tiny and fast as lightning.  Lance had the advantage of a longer wingspan, ridiculously long legs and arms keeping Pidge at bay and giving him time to strategize, but the second Pidge got in close to him, Lance was done for.  He had a killer jump reverse side kick that could knock the wind out of Lance if he landed it properly, and it would never cease to amaze him when Pidge threw his leg straight into the air and nailed Lance upside the head. 

Lance got plenty of his own points too, don't get him wrong.  And it wasn't like he and Pidge were out for blood. 

Still, he wasn't as fast as he'd like to be.  He needed to do more leg exercises, something to get his speed up.  If he was going to spar against Keith and  _ win _ , he was going to have to do better than that. 

He was good, yeah, but he was going to have to be  _ great _ . 

...

"Great job, Kogane, keep it up!" 

Keith gulped in air and steeled himself against the burn that was setting in deep in the muscle of his shoulders.  He pushed through, throwing his weight into his punches and moving his arms as fast as he could.  He'd done a forms class earlier that afternoon, spending forty-five minutes breaking down the techniques and perfecting each and every movement in his routine.  

Now it was conditioning time.  They were only fifteen minutes in, and he was already dead tired. 

 

"Switch!" their coach yelled from the front of the mat, and he shoved off the bag, planted his feet on the floor, and sprinted across the school to the next station.  Jump ropes.  Great.  They were actually trying to kill him today. 

 

The school was massive, a warehouse they'd cleaned up and insulated.  A curtain hanging from the ceiling could divide the mat in half for smaller classes, but the conditioning class Keith was taking right now had fifty adult students running from exercise to exercise all over the mat.  It made them all wish that the mat was just a little bit smaller.

 

"Toughen up, butter cups.  You're black belts.  You can do better than this." 

 

Some of their instructors believed in motivation through positive reinforcement.  Others took on teaching with the demeanor of an experienced drill sergeant.  Keith didn't respond much to either method, keeping his head down and doing what he had to.  Shiro had always responded better, beaming under praise and taking criticism to heart, pushing and pushing until their instructor was pleased with him. 

 

He really was more suited for this. 

 

That didn't mean Keith didn't like the work out. 

 

Besides, he had a goal now.  Shiro had found some videos online- of the other guys in Keith's ring.  Much to his surprise, one of his biggest competitors was the kid he'd brained at the last tournament.  Lance had a dozen sparring videos online, all of them posted to a personal youtube channel, all of them with 'Legs McClain' somewhere in the title. 

 

Apparently that was his nickname. 

 

Keith could see why, too.  The guy was good.  He had legs a mile long and he knew how to use them, whipping them into the air with more enthusiasm than Keith was used to seeing in their age division.  He got so into it.  And yeah, Keith was fast, and he could pack some power into his hits, but he didn't have that kind of reach.  He'd have to be faster, quick enough to get around those legs.  He'd have to have enough stamina to wait Lance out and get him to chase him down.  Keith was used to fighting on the offensive, had always preferred it that way, but with no safe way to charge in around Lance's limbs he was going to have to switch it up a little bit.  

 

Let Lance come after him and make the mistake.  Let  _ him _ tire out first.

 

Keith had other opponents as well, of course.  That guy from Wisconsin- Rolo- had a form that Keith would  _ kill _ for, and he was a sneaky bastard with a combat weapon.  There was that big guy Keith had watched spar, and he couldn't remember his name, but he knew fighting him would be a challenge.  Good thing he was used to taking a hit.  Sparring with your older brother could teach you a thing or two about that, and Shiro had always had a strength advantage on him, even when they were little. 

 

Then of course there were competitors from his own academy.  Lotor or Regris and the rest of the team.  They trained just as hard as he did, and they had years of tournament experience on him.  

 

Whatever, Keith would be fine.  He had three hours of training today, and he could fit four days of practice in a week with his morning work schedule.  He'd be plenty in shape this tournament season. 

 

If he was going to compete, then damn it, he was going for gold.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a challenge is presented, and the boys are not having a good day

Lance waved his last student of the night out the door, grinning and locking the door behind him, gazing off sleepily into the dark night scene around them.  It was muggy out, all the windows open and the fan going in an attempt to scare away the heat.  It was only mildly successful, Lance thought to himself, sweat prickling at his forehead. 

 

He was dead tired, and he couldn’t wait to go home and sleep like the dead for the rest of the night.

 

**_“McClain!”_ ** His instructor’s sudden shout startled him enough that he jumped.  He groaned silently and closed his eyes for a moment, building up patience.

 

He called back, “Yes sir!” the way he was expected to, and dragged his happy ass the short distance across the mat to his instructor’s office.

 

Lance bowed as he entered the small room, more of a duck of his head than a proper greeting.  “Master Iverson,” he said, looking up at his instructor.  He sat in the chair that was gestured to. 

 

“Where’s Holt?” he asked.  The last Lance had seen him, Pidge had been hiding behind the counter working on school work and making Lance very glad that he wasn’t in high school anymore.  He remembers days of squeezing in school work between classes, stowing away by the counter or the changing rooms or the corner of the mat and trying to force himself to focus with everyone else around him running around and kicking things. 

 

Pidge was much better at focusing than he was. 

 

“Counter,” Lance answered, and leaned out of his seat to shut the door when Iverson motioned for him to do so. 

 

Iverson met Lance’s eyes and slid a piece of paper across his desk.  Lance reached out and took it.  Pidge’s tournament registration.

 

“Sir?”

 

“Fix it,” Iverson said.  “And tell Holt that this shit had better stop.  It’s not going to happen.” 

 

Lance didn’t like agreeing to this.  If Master Iverson fixed it himself, changed Pidge’s gender on his tournament forms from male to female, then Lance felt no guilt in letting Pidge rant and rave about it.  But when Lance was the one being told to change the paperwork, Pidge’s ranting sat heavy and uneasy in his gut.

 

Pidge wouldn’t be mad at him; not over this.  They’d both been in taekwondo since childhood, so Pidge understood the obligatory obedience.  Especially with Lance being chief instructor now, he wasn’t in a position to push back against Iverson.  Not when their instructor could make his life a living hell. 

 

“Yes sir, I’ll tell him,” Lance answered, rolling the corner of the paper between his thumb and finger.  He wouldn’t tell him, actually.  Just because he couldn’t help didn’t mean he was going to tell Pidge to stop fighting.

 

“Make sure you do,” Iverson said, and Lance felt sick.  “Have a good night, boys.” 

 

At least there was that.  Master Iverson wouldn’t let Pidge register in the men’s competition, wouldn’t go public with any of it, but in the comfort of their dojang, he barely seemed bothered by it.

 

When Pidge, upon earning his first degree black belt at thirteen, requested he be called ‘sir’ instead of ‘ma’am,’ Iverson didn’t even blink before saying, “Do what you want, then,” and instructing everyone listening to abide by this change.

 

Fortunately, black belts were referred to by their last names anyways, so changing from Katie Holt to Pidge Holt was an almost unnoticeable change.  The only black belts who broke that protocol were Lance (who found it easier to let the kids call him Mr. Lance than trying to mumble through the title Mr. McClain) and a junior black belt they called Gator, for reasons Lance couldn’t even remember anymore. 

 

So Iverson wasn’t entirely a bad guy, at least in Lance’s opinion.  But he supposed everyone felt that way about their instructor.  When someone helps raise you, they kind of become family, and even if your Aunt Camilla has really bad breath and criticizes your haircut every time you see her, you still love her.  Cause she’s family. 

 

That’s how he felt about Master Iverson. 

 

Coincidentally, Master Iverson also harped on his haircut a lot, joking that Lance ought to shave it all off so they could match.  Lance had considered it once, during middle school, but he quickly realized he wouldn’t look good without hair. 

 

“You ready, hermanito?” he asked, rounding the corner and nudging at Pidge’s textbook with his big toe.  Pidge looked up at him and shoved his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

 

“What did Master Iverson want?” he asked.  Lance had already folded the tournament paper up and hidden it in the waistband of his dobak pants.  He shrugged one shoulder and grinned.  

 

“Nothing important,” he lied.  “Let’s get out of here.” 

 

Exhaustion was turning into an ache at the base of Lance’s neck and the gap between his shoulder blades.  His hips felt sore and tight, his arms were a little floaty from overworking them, and he was probably dehydrated.

 

Sleep was a wonderful mistress, and Lance couldn’t wait to fold into her. 

 

“Ew,” Pidge said, when Lance said that last bit out loud.  He heaved a heavy school bag over one shoulder and swung his gear bag over the other.  Lance picked his own bag up and put his last threads of energy into closing the heavy windows before following Pidge out of the school and towards his truck.  

  
  
  


…

  
  


Keith was disappointed to find that his nerves had only diminished slightly between his first and second tournaments.  While the stakes weren’t as high this time around, it almost felt like there was more pressure on him.  Last competition had been about Shiro, who was supposed to make his big comeback.  He was currently standing beside Keith at the edge of the ring, disguised in civilian clothes and scrolling through their XMA playlist with a focused frown. 

 

It bummed him out that Shiro wasn’t competing.  It was like a weird role reversal, where now Shiro was the brother being dragged along, watching wide eyed at the edge of the ring and taking dutiful notes without any intention of competing himself. 

 

That wasn’t true, though, not exactly.  Shiro planned to come back, eventually, and besides.  Keith had spent a good deal of time crouching on the floor of the public restroom and talking Shiro down from a panic attack.  Keith would rather have his brother on the sidelines than forcing himself into nervous breakdowns, so while he was uncomfortable being the center of attention in this situation, he had to accept the situation as it was. 

 

Then there was the familiarity of it all.  Keith had allowed polite introductions at the last tournament, meeting several of the guys in his ring.  Since the regional tournaments encompassed the surrounding states, his current XMA ring looked pretty similar to last time.  There was that guy who’d nearly stabbed himself in the foot with his katana last time, the guy with the dreads and lightning fast nunchuck twirls, and then of course there was Lance and Pidge. 

 

He didn’t get the chance to talk to anyone before their ring got started, mostly because of a lack of time, but partially because of the nerves that were keeping his tongue trapped firmly inside his mouth.     
  


When he was little, tournaments had dragged on at a snail’s pace.  Now that he was the one competing, whole minutes were flying past him in the blink of an eye.  He barely saw three moves of the form he’d just been watching, and just like that the guy was bowing out of the ring and Keith’s name was being called. 

 

His hands shook.  He felt every eye on him and worried he would drop his weapons before his routine even started.  Without really thinking about it, Keith stalked into the ring.  Luckily, his nerves manifested into intensity that looked intentional.  He made himself even out his breathing, obeyed mindlessly as the judges bowed him in, and then the music was starting.  

 

The music was relaxing.  Once he came up with an XMA routine, he drilled it over and over until he could do it (at least half-assed) while holding a conversation.  Just like sparring, there wasn’t any room for thinking in XMA.  It wasn’t like traditional poom-sae, which required so much concentration it gave Keith a headache.  

 

With XMA he didn’t have a choice.  He let his head fill with music as his body took over like autopilot. 

 

The routine started with finger twirls on both sides of his body, a move that reminded Keith of the matrix and made his kama blades flash.  He’d let Shiro and Allura talk him into the song Gasolina, which was ridiculous considering the angry, growling music those two chose for their own routines.  Regardless, the song would have been wildly embarrassing if the form they’d designed was any less badass. 

 

There were a number of impressive throws, where the tossed the weapon far over his head and let it tumble down before catching it expertly under a spinning hook kick.  It was a little slower than his last routine, less snapping arm movements and more flashy kicks.  Butterflies and blind jump sidekicks and a leg sweep that turned into a vertical round kick.  

 

He couldn’t even keep track of what he was doing, trusting his body to throw itself into the correct movements for the two minutes he was allowed.  The only time he snapped out of his own head was during a corkscrew, where he launched himself off of one leg and rolled twice in the air before landing crouched on the mat in the center of the ring.  Keith heard actual cheering at that, and he almost couldn’t believe it.  But there wasn’t time to think about it with the music coming to a close and the judges calling him back to attention.  

 

He stood patiently, accepted his score, and left the ring.  Same as last time, seven-eight-nine.  He was pretty damn pleased with himself.  He slumped tiredly onto the floor where Shiro had dropped off their equipment and propped himself up against his duffle bag, watching the rest of the competitors do their rounds and letting himself relax.

 

That is, until later, after they’d bowed out and accepted their award papers.  He was turning to follow Shiro across the competition room, into a side hallway to grab some extra practice before traditionals, when a hand landed on his shoulder and yanked him back. 

 

“What the  _ hell _ was that!?” a voice snapped, and Keith whirled around to see a familiar face.  Just like last time, Lance didn’t look very happy to see him.  Unlike last time, Lance wasn’t just irritated- he was fuming. 

 

“What?” Keith asked, cluelessly, tongue suddenly too heavy in his mouth. 

 

“You know exactly  _ what _ ,” Lance snapped, shoving his finger into the middle of Keith’s chest.  “You stole my song!”

 

Once again, Keith was at a loss for words.  “What?” 

 

Lance let out a growl and threw his hands up, and that was when another guy Keith recognized from their traditional ring showed up behind him.  “Okay, Lance, deep breaths.  Let’s try to relax.” 

 

Lance was not open to his friend’s suggestion.  He stomped his foot on the ground- like actually stomped, like a small child- and demanded, “I’ve been using that song for  _ months _ and now this weird kid with stupid hair shows up and  _ steals it. _ _ Right before I competed!” _  Lance shoved his finger into Keith’s chest again, hard enough that it actually smarted a little, and Keith had to admit that it’d been a dick move.  Or, it would have been a dick move, if Keith had realized what he was doing.  He wouldn’t steal someone’s routine on  _ purpose _ .  

 

“I didn’t know that was your song!” Keith protested, and that earned him all the fire in Lance’s eyes zeroed directly in on him. 

 

“How did you not know!? I used it last tournament!” 

 

Keith hadn’t been paying attention last tournament, actually, too preoccupied with trying not to throw up or run away.  He couldn’t say that, though.  Luckily Lance’s friend-  _ Hunk!   _ That was his name.  Keith was so bad at this- stepped in between them and placed a broad hand in the middle of Lance’s chest. 

 

“You’re going to get yourself disqualified if you keep being disrespectful,” Hunk hissed under his breath, and Lance responded to that statement with a bratty huff and a slightly eased glare. 

 

That is, until Keith spoke, and he really should have known better.  “Don’t you have any other routines you could do?” he asked, and from the way Lance flinched he was scared the guy was going to lunge for him and try to take his throat out. 

 

“You son of a bitch,” Lance growled quietly, accent heavy on his words.  “You want a new routine?  Fine!  I could pick  _ any _ song and win gold.” 

 

Keith didn’t know why he was letting himself get dragged into this argument, but Lance’s words sounded accusatory, and Keith didn’t take challenges lying down. 

 

“It’s not like it’s hard,” he snapped back, sounding just as mean as Lance.  

 

Lance let out a noise that was half-squeak and half-outrage.  “You confident in that, ponytail?   What if I picked the song for you?  Could you win then!?” 

 

This really was drastically out of line, but Keith was in too deep to stop now.  He stepped in closer to Lance, nose to nose, and made himself smirk.  “Pick the song, pick the weapon, and I’ll still beat your ass.”

 

Lance’s lip pulled up in a snear, and he seemed to contemplate it for a moment before holding his hand out.  “Deal,” he snapped.  “You pick mine, I’ll pick yours.  I hope you’re not a picky eater.” 

 

That threw Keith off guard a little.  He blinked once.  “Why?”

 

“Because you’re gonna  _ eat my dust _ .” 

 

They traded phone numbers, punching them into each other’s phones as if they were trying to crack the screens, and shared one final glare before departing. 

 

“See you in traditionals!” Keith spit at Lance’s retreating back.  It earned him a curious glance from Shiro, who apparently noticed Keith hadn’t followed him and had turned back to look for him.  

 

“Such honor,” Shiro muttered as they crossed the convention hall.  Keith tugged on his belt to have something to do with his hands and gritted his teeth. 

 

“Shut up.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only thing worse than being a failure was being a coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally Lance's last name was McClain in this, but i've been hanging around someone on tumblr (if i ever remember their user name, I'll let you know) who is really up in arms about Lance having a Cuban last name, and you know what? they're right. besides, the last name 'mcclain' makes me think about 'john mcclain' and that old man is not my favorite old man to think about. 
> 
> anyways, lance fuentes it is! i'll be going back and changing it in the previous chapters, as well as getting instructor and school names straightened out. until that fix happens: 
> 
> Marmora Academy:  
> Head instructor- Master Kolivan  
> Keith Kogane  
> Takashi Shirogane  
> Allura Altea  
> Lotor   
> Coach Ulaz
> 
> Garrison Academy:   
> Head instructor- Master Iverson  
> Lance Fuentes  
> Pidge Holt

“And then you do a backflip here!” Pidge exclaimed, plopping down on the ground and rolling into a backwards somersault to imitate the cooler move neither of them actually knew how to do yet.  “And you lunge forward on one knee and stab!”

 

Lance watched him do just that, staining his knee with grass marks and stopping the blunt end of Lance’s color belt training staff a mere few inches from Lance’s thigh.  Lance didn’t bother bringing his competition staff home from the school. The house was too crowded, and there were too many kids running around. There had been an incident a few years back that had resulted in a shattered bow staff and both Lance and his brother getting grounded for a month. 

 

Never again. 

 

The wooden staff was more Pidge’s size anyways, and it was sturdy enough that Lance could let his little cousins bang it against trees and fences and the ground without worrying about irreparable damage. 

 

Lance nodded through Pidge’s explanation and held his hand up to his chin. “Uh huh,” he agreed dubiously, “But I can’t do a backflip, and I especially can’t do one while holding a bow staff.” 

 

Pidge reached out lightning fast and whapped him in the hip as he got to his feet.  “Yet,” he insisted. “Today not possible, tomorrow possible.” 

 

“Thanks, Yoda.” 

 

Pidge swung the stick and tried to hit him again, but Lance was ready this time.  He caught it before it made contact, wrapped it under his arm, and yanked backwards, pitching Pidge off balance and sending him tumbling back into the dirt.   Lance laughed, and Pidge glared up at him. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, so proud of yourself,” he griped, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin up on his hands.  “Come on, hot shot. Your turn, then.”

 

“Fine,” Lance agreed, voice snippy, always eager to show off.  He twirled the staff between his fingers and grinned at how comically small it was.  He’d had a growth spurt or three since getting his black belt in middle school. 

 

He picked a trick to start on- a two-armed figure eight spin, very Star Wars-esque- and threw himself into it.  He didn’t really pay attention to what he was doing, but Pidge was, apparently. 

 

“Slow down,” he said, maybe a half-dozen moves in.  

 

“XMA is supposed to be fast,” Lance argued, tossing it behind his back and turning to catch it, the move  _ almost _ casual from practice.  “Slow forms never win anything.”

 

“They could if they were done right.” 

 

“But nobody ever does them right.” Lance slowed his movements, not to abide by Pidge’s instruction, but because his littlest cousin had teetered her way across the backyard to join them.  As the words left his mouth, a thought struck him. A split second later he was struck by his staff as well, when his inattention allowed it to slip and smack him in the head.

 

“Pidge, you’re a genius!” he cheered, while Pidge snorted a laugh and stretched out languidly on the grass.  

 

“I know.” 

 

“If I give him a ridiculously slow song, he’ll never make a form good enough to win!” 

 

Pidge picked up the stick where Lance dropped it and poked playfully at Kiko, who giggled and chased after it like the tiny warrior she was.  “Who?” he asked.

 

“Keith!” 

 

“Keef!” Kiko cheered.  She was in a phase where she repeated any word she heard, so long as it was said loud enough.  She was also in a phase where she refused to answer to anything but her nickname- Kiko- much to her mother’s dismay.  Lance thought the nickname was cute, but his older sister refused to agree. 

 

“Okay, sure, but what song?” Pidge picked Kiko up around the middle and held her up at arm's length, making airplane noises with his mouth and creating another round of shrieking giggles. 

 

“Only the most annoying song to ever exist,” Lance said in his most grim and serious voice.  He fished his phone out of his pocket and pulled up Keith’s number in his contacts. His contact name was ‘ATAsshole,’ something Lance was rather proud of.  

 

He quickly shot off a text, telling Keith which song and weapon he was supposed to use.  The second he pressed send, he dropped his phone back on the ground and swung Kiko out of Pidge’s hands to rest on his hip instead.  

 

“This is going to be great, Pidge.  From the top!” 

 

Pidge got up off the ground with half-hearted groaning and picked the stick up again.  He spun it slowly and gently around his neck, then swung it over his head and had it twirl across his palm.  His movements were lazy under the powerful summer sun, and he was a bit more subdued in his excitement at putting Keith in his place, once and for all. 

 

That was fine.  Lance could be excited enough for the both of them.

 

It wasn’t long before two more of Lance’s cousins got sick of the tree they were conquering and came to see what Lance and Pidge were up to.  Pidge willingly relinquished the bow staff and laughed as the kids swung it around and made kung fu noises, gleefully making up routines the way Pidge and Lance did.  Lance really had to talk to his brother more about getting them in the program. 

 

He added it to his to do list, bounced Kiko on his hip, and wandered back towards the house to help his mom with dinner.  He wouldn’t notice until much later that he’d forgotten his phone in the backyard. 

  
  
  


…

  
  


Open mat sessions were Keith’s favorite time in the academy.  Twelve hundred square feet of practice space, and he could do whatever he wanted with it.  He could plug in earbuds, claim his own private corner, and just go to town. There was less thinking.  Less worrying about his instructors’ and coaches’ expectations or instructions. Just him and the mat. Him and the weapon in his hand. 

 

Him and the stupid song Lance gave him for the next tournament. 

 

Movement across the school caught his attention, and Keith stopped the sword mid-swing.  He wasn’t familiar with it. He’d taken a handful of classes as a junior black belt, but he hadn’t been interested in pursuing it.  Sword fights on TV were fast and violent and fun. Sword classes were slow and methodical and repetitive, which were all things Keith had learned to appreciate as an adult but hadn’t had the discipline to enjoy as a child.  

 

Now he was suffering for it, struggling to stop his weapon on a dime the way he knew he needed to be able to.  He didn’t have muscle memory to help him out, and he was starting to get frustrated. 

 

Good time for a break then. 

 

Shiro bowed deeply as he exited their head instructor’s office, and he was very controlled in the way he shut the door gently while the set of his shoulders suggested he’d rather have slammed in.  

 

Open mat meant students were free to come and go as they pleased, so Keith quickly bowed out and trotted across the room towards his brother.  Shiro would probably want to leave, and Keith was his ride home. The weather outside was nice enough that the walk home wouldn’t be much more than an inconvenience, but still.  Keith was curious. 

 

“Hey,” he said, catching up to Shiro near the locker rooms and slipping past him to put his sword away in his gear bag.  “Are we going?” 

 

Shiro didn’t reply right away.  His jaw tightened and he glared down at the floor for a second or two, then let out a rushed breath through his nose and looked up.  “Not yet. Let’s spar.” 

 

Sparring with Shiro was a privilege that Keith was never known to turn down.  In childhood they’d spent hours upon hours knocking each other silly in the backyard, but as they grew older and Shiro grew more serious, Keith found himself having to wait between matches.  Their parents didn’t want them horsing around, not wanting Shiro to risk an injury before a competition, and Keith couldn’t ask Shiro at their academy since the rules dictated that lower ranks were never within their rights to ask a higher rank to spar with them, brothers or not.  

 

Then again, Shiro had that look in his eye that suggested Keith was about to get his ass handed to him, no matter what kind of advantage he had. 

 

Oh well.  It had been a while, and Keith had some frustration to work off anyways.   He nodded once, quickly, and said, “Sure.” 

 

The grim look didn’t leave Shiro’s face as he said, “Suit up.” 

  
  


…

 

It was seven a.m. and Lance was tired.  The world was a cruel and miserable place, and not even the Starbucks in his hand could change his mind.  He curled his lips around the straw and took a long sip, relishing in the way the icy chocolate goodness soothed his burning, tired throat, and barely suppressed a moan of pleasure.  Not that anyone would have noticed anyways. They ought to have been dead to the world as well, this damn early in the morning, but being a black belt meant being there bright and early for judging assignments.

 

Being a  _ broke _ black belt meant not getting a hotel room, and instead driving three hours that morning to make it on time.

 

And being a  _ stupid _ black belt meant losing track of time last night, and staying up obnoxiously late, chatting with people on Tindr and replaying Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. 

 

He’d woken up on the basement couch to his alarm screaming at three forty-five in the morning, only an hour and a half after he’d fallen asleep.  He’d almost,  _ almost _ , made the mistake of throwing his phone across the room and going back to sleep, but immediately after tossing his phone, his eyes snapped open and he remembered what day it was. 

 

A miserable day to be alive, was what it was. 

 

Lance trailed Pidge through the convention center to the registration desk, where they could pick up their paperwork and judging assignments before heading to the meeting, where the Master of Ceremonies would lecture them about the new Standards (which never changed) and the day’s schedule (which was never kept).  Lance was not looking forward to it. He kind of wanted to sob. 

 

“Dude!” Pidge’s voice was far too loud and sudden for the early morning, and Lance nearly dropped his coffee in surprise, his heart hammering wildly and waking him up properly. 

 

His only response was an undignified “Ah!” that was higher in pitch than he would ever admit possible.  Pidge didn’t blink an eye, too preoccupied with jumping up and grasping Lance’s face between both of his hands. 

 

“My ring division!” he shouted, shaking Lance around a bit, in a way that probably wasn’t healthy after his concussion earlier in the season.

 

“Huh?” 

 

“Look how I’m registered!” 

 

Pidge let go of Lance’s face and held the paperwork up in both hands, and Lance felt his stomach freeze in the way that only happens when you realize you’ve remembered something far too late.

 

He thought back to a few nights before, when he’d been in a rush and faxed in all their tournament paperwork last minute.  He’d set it aside with the others, thinking he would remember to change the gender identification section before faxing them in.  Iverson wanted Lance to take care of all the paperwork now, was trusting him to follow orders without being supervised, and on his very first assignment doing so he’d already fucked it up.

 

Pidge was registered in the men’s division.

 

God damn it….

 

“-can’t believe it’s finally happened!  I mean, it’s about time it’s happened. I can’t compete in the girls’ ring forever- not that the girls aren’t just as good- but I’ve been on T for a while now and it’s only right that I’m in the correct category, but- Holy shit, Lance, this is the best day of my life!  How did you get Iverson to agree to this?” 

 

The lack of sleep was not coming to Lance’s aid as he failed to put three coherent words together.  “Uh….” 

 

“Thank you so much!” Pidge cheered, throwing himself at Lance and wrapping his arms around him in the tightest hug he could manage.  Lance patted him absently on the back and wondered how much trouble he was going to be in. 

 

Probably a lot. 

 

He needed to tell Pidge.  Tell him that this was all an accident, and Iverson wouldn’t be in their corner if a confrontation came up.  Needed to tell him that Lance was going to end up getting the talking to of a lifetime and doing close to two hundred push-ups “to aid his memory,” which honestly could only help him at this point.

 

He’d forgotten to fix Pidge’s paperwork.  He’d forgotten to go to bed at a reasonable time, and before then he’d forgotten to take the garbage out until his mom was ready to threaten his life.  He’d forgotten his phone outside and let it get ruined in the rain, and oh yeah, that reminded him. 

 

Being a black belt meant being honest, but as he’d previously discussed, Lance wasn’t exactly a model black belt at the moment.  A few more infractions wouldn’t hurt at this rate. He’d play along with the lie now, and he’d confront Keith later for backing down from their bet and never replying to his text, and then he’d get his act together. 

 

There.  Perfect plan. 

 

“I’m happy for you, hermanito,” he said, honestly, finally making his brain cooperate.  Then he quickly changed the subject before he could throw up from the stress this was all causing him.  “Text my mom and let her know we got here safely. My phone is being really testy about messages these days.” 

 

“Wonder why,” Pidge said dryly, but Lance did not need sass from low ranks.  He smacked Pidge upside the head and didn’t acknowledge the elbow that dug into his ribs.  Instead he shoved his paperwork into this bag and pushed off through the crowd on the way to the black belt meeting, where hopefully he could hide out in the back and catch another hour of sleep.  

  
  


…

  
  


Three tournaments in and Keith was still nervous.  It was getting ridiculous at this point, how worried he was about failing and making a fool of himself.  He knew it didn’t actually matter, but he had this deep pull in his gut demanding that he prove his worth, show them all that he belonged there.

 

Considering his apparent need to be taken seriously, maybe this bet with Lance wasn’t the greatest idea.  It was too late to back out now, though. The only thing worse than being a failure was being a coward. 

 

He’d been pretty fair, he thought, in assigning Lance his song.  His weapon, maybe not, but he had to have a bit of fun, didn’t he?  He’d watched a number of Lance’s youtube videos first, to figure out what he was used to and what he was good at. There were only two XMA videos up, both of them weapons, both of them bow staff.  He found a number of sparring videos that he bookmarked for later, because studying your opponent was always a good idea. More entertaining, however, were a number of other videos, which were obviously choreographed, but not serious enough to be demos.  

 

Keith’s favorite was set to the song Tubthumping, and showed Lance getting knocked off his feet in time with the lyrics “I get knocked down-” over and over and over.  There were a number of other videos, with Lance and Pidge horsing around with different weapons and making routines that could have been demos is they were a little more refined.

 

That was how Keith figured out Lance knew his way around a number of weapons, but not the one Keith had told him to use.  It was only fair. 

 

Keith was gonna wipe the floor with him. 

 

That was the thought Keith meditated on while he sank into a deep split at the edge of the ring and rested his forehead against the floor.  He was already well warmed up, but the splits were good for quieting the nerves in his stomach. 

 

In a fit of convenient timing, Allura had dragged Shiro away for some sort of errand just a few minutes prior.  He hoped Shiro stayed busy until after Keith was done competing, because he knew his brother would have a word or two to say about “taking competition seriously” and “showing respect for the art” and “not letting people talk him into things.”  

 

Keith was showing respect for the art.  His form was  _ beautiful _ despite the circumstances.  Lance was a talented martial artist, and Keith was smart enough and proud enough to take this seriously. 

 

He was kind of excited to see what Lance had come up with. 

 

“Hey mullet!” Speak of the devil and he shall appear.  Keith assumed the toe poking him in the shoulder belonged to Lance, and he let the last of his peace and quiet escape with a heavy sigh before he propped himself up on his elbows and looked at him. 

 

“Yes?”

 

“Guess you chickened out, huh?  Not good enough to do sword form?”

 

Shiro had showed him a meme once…. ‘Does not compute?’  It pretty clearly fit the situation.

 

“Um…” Keith said, rolling back on his hips before drawing his legs back in and standing.  He looked Lance in the eye and asked, “What are you talking about?” Lance scoffed. 

 

“You never replied to my text?” Lance said, voice rising at the end in a way that held a lot of attitude.  Keith blinked slowly. “You didn’t send me my half of the dare, so the deal is off, pal. You lose by default.”  

 

He looked so damn proud of himself, Keith almost felt bad about bursting his bubble.  Almost. 

 

He crouched down and pulled his phone from the front pocket of his gear bag, and he had the messages pulled up as he stood and held the phone out to his opponent.  “I replied,” he said calmly. “Like an hour after you sent it. See?” 

 

Lance stared blankly at it for a moment, then took it straight from Keith’s hand and stared closer before erupting.  He said something Keith didn’t understand, but it sounded venomous. Pidge responded quickly, popping up next to him out of nowhere.

 

“It wouldn’t be a piece of shit if you hadn’t left it outside,” he said, and Lance turned to him with a vicious glare. 

 

“Not in the mood, Pidge.”

 

“Just saying.” 

 

Keith reached out and took his phone back, nervous that Lance was going to throw it or drop it or crush it out of pure frustration.  “We can drop the bet,” he said, dropping his phone into his bag and sighing. This was all terribly disappointing. 

 

That is, until Lance turned his glare in Keith’s direction and spit out the word, “What?”

 

Keith didn’t like arguing with people.  He longed to go back to stretching. He got caught on the first word, sounding like an idiot as he said, “I-I mean, if you’re not prepared, it’s not fair to-” 

 

“You think I can’t improv?” 

 

“I didn’t say that.” 

 

“I can kick your ass, with or without preparation.  Even if you did give me a bullshit song to use.” 

 

Keith wasn’t about to talk about bullshit songs after the nonsense Lance had given him.  He shrugged and said, “If you still want to.”

 

And it was Pidge who had to act as the voice of reason.  “Um, Lance? You don’t have a three-section staff, dude.”

 

Keith hadn’t realized they’d attracted a crowd until someone behind him chimed in, “You can use mine!” and someone else laughed and clapped a few times.  Most of their ring had gathered around to watch, all of them apparently very entertained and invested in their competition. 

 

Lance looked torn for a moment, mouth hanging open and eyes flitting around.  But then, just like that, he clenched his jaw and hardened his resolve. “Fine,” he snapped, reaching out and taking the folded staff.  “Thank you,” he said to the guy, and then poked Keith in the middle of the chest with his borrowed weapon, making the chain jingle quietly.  “You’re going down.” 

 

Keith didn’t say anything, and Lance huffed one final time before turning and pacing away.  “What song did you give him?” someone nearby asked. Keith gave a shrug. 

 

“You’ll see.”  It was probably better as a surprise.  

  
  
  


The thing was, though, that this wasn’t exactly fair anymore.  Keith had been given a bullshit song, a weapon he didn’t know, and three weeks to prepare.  Lance had been given a bullshit song, a weapon he didn’t know, and twenty minutes at most. There was no honor in competing this way, and watching Lance talk quickly and panickedly to Pidge at the other side of the ring helped him make up his mind. 

 

He had to lose, but he had to look cool doing it.  The question was how. Dropping his weapon would make him look stupid.  He could accidentally stab a judge, since the sword was blunt and mostly harmless, but that was a little over the line.  He could stab himself, but no, that was lame. 

 

One of Lance’s youtube videos came to him as inspiration as Keith caught sight of someone a few feet away. 

 

Hunk was one of the largest guys in their ring, and he was also friends with Lance.  Keith knew this because of one of the videos online, called “Monkey Fun, with Friends!” which was mostly just Lance and Hunk tumbling around and practicing haphazard judo throws, but one of the stunts involved Lance running up Hunk’s back and using him to do a backflip. 

 

Keith could do a backflip off a wall.  It shouldn’t be that much different to do a backflip off a human, especially not a human as sturdy as Hunk. 

 

Outside props were forbidden, something Shiro had gotten in trouble for a long time ago, so this was perfect.  Keith could have the obviously better form and still lose. It was genius. There wasn’t much time before their competition got started, so Keith made quick work of snaking his way through the crowded arena and tapping Hunk on the shoulder.  He kept Lance in view, watching him pace and mutter about thirty feet away, totally lost in his own head. 

 

Perfect. 

 

Hunk turned in response to the tap, raising an eyebrow and looking down at Keith.  He had a good half foot of height on him, but somehow he looked less menacing here than he had in the sparring ring three weeks ago, where the two of them had squared off and Keith had only come off on top because he was faster.

 

Hunk was a good guy about the defeat, shaking Keith’s hand and slapping him on the back with a huge smile and a congratulations.  Maybe, Lance’s friend or otherwise, this could still work out. 

 

“Oh hey,” Hunk said, and Keith swallowed his nerves. 

 

“Hey.  I need to ask you something.” 

  
  


…

  
  


It took a little adjusting, but Keith wasn’t worried about the flow.  Substitute out the two moves he’d had planned for the one new, bigger, flashier move.  The move that he was desperately hoping his brother wasn’t around to see him pull. Oh well. 

 

The form started slow, and Keith tried not to feel embarrassed about the stupid lyrics. He had a move that was either clever or stupid- he hadn’t decided yet- that matched the lyrics  _ ‘push it down, push it do-own.’ _  A slow side-kick, knee level, followed with a skip forward, x-stance, and slow sword thrust.  God, he hoped this looked cool. 

 

There were a few other calm, slower movements after that for the second half of verse one.  Nothing that could ever actually be quantified as an attack. 

 

The bridge was where it picked up.  The song sang  _ ‘one two three, one two three-three, _ ’ and Keith felt awfully clever as he spun his sword in figure eights, completing strikes one, two, and three as the song instructed.  Ha. He noticed someone to his left filming. He’d have to ask them for the video. 

 

The bridge sped up and up and up, and Keith followed it, until it burst into the chorus.  The chorus that was loud and filled with long notes, which he’d matched to full bodied, sweeping movements.  A crescent kick into a spinning heel kick, blade extended with the hand opposite his foot, turning him into what was essentially a whirligig of destruction.  He followed that with a back bend, kicking one leg forward and making a perfect arch, both hands braced on the flat of his sword. Back on his feet, he ran forward, planted both feet on the floor, and leapt into a jump front kick.  He’d crossed the mat with that, and the next line of the chorus started. 

 

He crossed the mat this time with a series of spins and kicks, straight legged movements that interchanged having either his foot or his blade above his head.  It was a touch faster this time, and he met Hunk’s eyes and nodded, watched him brace himself. 

 

As the song croned  _ ‘I-’m gonna fl-y…’  _ Keith took off towards Hunk at a run, took two heart-stopping steps  _ up _ Hunk’s back, and then launched himself, and as the word ‘ _ fly _ ’ stretched on, Keith flew backwards into an arching backflip, and as his feet slammed back into the mat, he heard a roar of cheers. 

 

Oh. 

 

Next move then.  He threw his foot straight up, caught it against the flat of his blade, and trapped his leg there as he spun on the ball of his foot in two perfect circles.  His balance didn’t shake. He was more than a little proud of himself. 

 

He dropped his leg, swinging it down like an axe, and launched off the foot that was still on the ground.  One legged backflips weren’t something he’d mastered yet, and his strength wasn’t quite there. He faltered into a crouch when landing, shifted seamlessly into a leg sweep, and then shoved himself back up on one knee, sword out over his head, and announced his completion. 

 

“Done, sir!” he yelled, and Pidge cut off the music, and everyone was still screaming.  Keith’s ankle was screaming at him as wobbled to his feet. It was probably that one legged backflip.  Or the landing on the wall flip- Hunk flip? Hunk flip. He’d have to tape it before traditional competitions. 

 

The judges stood, the crowd quieted down, and Keith knew it was time for the reckoning. 

 

Several people booed when, after much debate, the judges announced Keith’s disqualification.  They were very polite about it, and it wasn’t like Keith was surprised. He  _ planned _ this.  Still, he appreciated that there were bystanders who seemed to actually enjoy his form. 

 

Keith accepted his fate gracefully, bowing and saying he understood before stepping out of the ring.  Shiro was there, levelling Keith with a stern expression, so Keith immediately spun on heel and beelined towards Hunk, who beamed at him. 

 

“You kicked me in the head,” he said.  

 

“What? Oh God, I’m so-” 

 

“I’m joking, I’m joking,” Hunk said, wrapping an arm around Keith’s shoulders and tugging him into his side, making Keith stumble a bit. 

 

The next person was Lotor, who’d been using the same sword form for a while now and had much crisper movements than Keith had.  Keith didn’t pay any attention to him, listening instead as Hunk rambled on about how he wished he could learn to do a backflip like that, and watching Lance out of the corner of his eye. 

 

Lotor finished with sevens and eights, and the Lance’s name was being called.  Keith watched Lance swallow visibly and close his eyes for a moment before stepping into the ring.  Pidge had volunteered to do everyone’s music, and he was practically cackling as he pressed play on Lance’s song.  

 

The simple tones started, and Keith almost felt bad for him.  Almost. 

 

_ ‘I-I don’t want a lot for Christmas….’  _ Mariah Carey’s voice trilled, and someone to Keith’s immediate right said, “Oh my God,” out loud in pure surprise. 

 

“Fuentes, at it again,” someone else said, and a third person laughed.  Hunk smacked his hand over his eyes. Pidge shook visibly in an attempt to restrain laughter.  

 

As the song opened and Mariah sang slow and long, Lance took it entirely seriously.  He did the classic slow weapon raise, made an X above his head, and then lowered it back.  He stepped into a stance, braced himself, and then the jingle bells started. 

 

He was… trying to use them like double bahng mahng ee, but they were connected by the third section of the staff, and Lance was very obviously fighting against himself. His nose wrinkled up as the jerked his way through a series of strikes in time with the jingle bells and excited piano. 

 

Keith felt like such an asshole for giving him this song, but oh God, he was on the verge of laughter. 

 

As the lyrics started again, Lance matched the words with kicks.   _ ‘I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need.’ _

 

Mariah sang  _ ‘And I- _ ’ dragging out the “I” for a few seconds, and Lance gathered the weapon in one hand, held it out sideways like a samurai sword, and yelled in time with her.  Dead serious. Keith lost it. Pidge lost it. In the next ten seconds of the routine, so did everyone else watching.

 

Hunk wrapped his arm firmly around Keith and hooked his hand in the back of his belt to keep him from crumpling in laughter, and as Keith blinked tears from his eyes, he could see Lance choking.

 

He was stiff, red faced, and frozen for a long second in the middle of the ring.  Everyone around them was roaring in laughter. Keith threw his last shred of embarrassment out the window and cupped a hand over his mouth, shouting, “Come on, Lance!” in his most encouraging tone of voice.  Hunk giggled manically. Someone nearby yelled out, “Fuego Fuentes!” and started a chant. 

 

Lance’s mouth fell open, and he threw a glance back at Pidge, who nodded.  And from that moment on the form was  _ so _ much better. 

 

It sucked, in all actuality.  It was clear to everyone watching that Lance had no idea how to use the weapon, but this time around it was also clear that Lance didn’t care.  As the second verse started, the moves Lance was doing could barely be qualified as Taekwondo. There were some well timed crescent kicks, and a few attempts at strikes, but his front kicks resembled a can-can (probably on purpose) and there was a sway to his hips that made the whole thing more akin to dancing than fighting.  Lance held the middle portion with both hands and swung the staff around in lopsided figure eights. He swung it over his head and ducked back, like The Matrix, then swept it under his own feet and jumped. 

 

He cast it out sideways again, holding it like a sword, and moved his way through the first five moves of sword form before gripping it in both hands and swinging it like a baseball bat.  

 

The song sang  _ ‘All I want for Christmas is you _ ’ and Lance pointed his weapon directly at the center judge, Grand Master Lee, and lip synced the words.  Keith broke into another fit of hysterical laughter. 

 

There were a number of cartwheels and a front handspring.  For the words ‘ _ holding on to me so tight,’ _ he threw out a knife hand strike, then swung his arm back to himself, wrapped his arms over his chest, and pet his own shoulders like he was pretending to make out with someone.  The crowd roared with laughter. 

 

He pretended to be serious for the slower part of the song, throwing what were almost proper three-section-staff strikes and kihapping along with Mariah Carey's singing.

 

He did a series of spinning crescent kicks at the start of the last verse, spinning in place like a sloppier version of a move in their poom-sae. Keith cheered.  Lance lost his balance and almost fell over.

 

Near the end of the song, when he was so into it that he’d gone far over the time limit and was starting to run out of ideas, he actually jump roped with the damn thing.  Everyone was clapping along to the music at that point, cheering him on, and singing along to the music. The judges looked less than impressed, but Keith couldn’t make himself focus on that yet.  Just like everyone else, his eyes were stuck on Lance. 

 

The ending was big.  He did a move similar to the one Keith had done, leg extended above his head and braced against the weapon, but his spin wasn’t slow and balanced, it as a quick twist before he crumpled.  One leg tucked underneath him, he caught himself on his shoulder blades as he hit the mat in a death drop. 

 

People cheered.  Keith doubled over in laughter.  Pidge faded the music out as the song came to an end. 

  
  
  


…

  
  


“I cannot believe you guys,” Shiro said, shaking his head where it rested against his hands, elbows braced on the table.  Allura laughed loudly next to him. 

 

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” she said in a faux-deep voice, mocking Grand Master Lee.  She pushed her eyebrows together, pursed her lips, and crossed her arms over her chest. Keith snickered behind his hand. 

 

“What you boys have done today is a disgrace to taekwondo.  I would expect this behavior from  _ children _ , but not from grown men!” 

 

“Grown men, yeah right,” Pidge muttered, the barest traces of a smile ghosting over his lips.  He’d been bummed out ever since his traditional competition, where a half-hour argument had been fruitless, and Pidge hadn’t gotten to compete at all.  

 

Lance sat next to him, rubbing his hand rhythmically over his back, and grinning along with the conversation.  He seemed rather subdued also, his smile faltering after the events of the day. 

 

“Compete properly, or not at all!” Allura roared, voice still deep, standing and slamming a hand on the table.  Shiro actually cracked a smile at that, and Lance choked on a bubble of laughter. She pointed at Lance, making his eyes widen comically as he sat up properly in his chair.  “Young man! Who is your instructor?” 

 

A smirk grew over Lance’s face as he chirped, “Master Iverson, sir!” in a voice that practically squeakd.  Allura’s face dropped in mock disappointment, and she all but growled, and exaggeration of the exasperation they’d seen on Grand Master Lee earlier.

 

“And you, sir?” she recovered, pointing at Keith.  It was in that moment that Keith noticed none other but their head instructor crossing the restaurant in their direction.  He swallowed his tongue. 

 

“Um.  Allura.”

 

“Allura?  I haven’t heard of any Master Allura,” she said, still in character.

 

“ _ Allura _ ,” he snapped, “Sit  _ down _ .” 

 

Shiro had gotten lost in conversation with Pidge and hadn’t noticed a thing.  Lance was casting confused glances between Keith and his master, not sure what he was looking at.  Allura didn’t get the hint. 

 

“Twenty push-ups, young man!  You do not yell at your master!”  Allura scolded, and then Master Kolivan was upon them. 

 

“You’re quite right,” he said, voice calm and resonating as ever.  Allura yelped, surprised, and jumped out of her skin. Shiro’s head snapped up.  Keith dropped his own on the table. “Yelling at your master is perhaps not the wisest course of action.”  

 

Keith rose to his feet as Shiro did, and all three of them bowed in greeting.  “Master Kolivan.” Lance and Pidge scrambled up a second too late, still lost in the whole situation, and bowed as well.  Master Kolivan returned it, smiling easily, and gestured for everyone to relax. 

 

“Would you like to sit, Master?” Shiro said, getting up and surrendering his own chair.  Master Kolivan shook his head. 

 

“No, thank you.  I just wanted to catch up after today’s competition.”  Keith’s stomach sunk, and he scowled. The color drained from Lance’s face.  Allura slouched a bit in her seat. Keith knew a conversation like this was bound to happen, but he wasn’t excited to be yelled at for the second time that day. 

 

Master Iverson surprised him.  “Your sword techniques are not ready for competition,” he said, and Keith wondered how he’d seen a recording of his routine so quickly.  “And I would not advice doing unpracticed stunts  _ before _ traditional competition.  You could have sprained an ankle and ruined the whole day.” 

 

“Yes sir,” Keith mumbled, not quite steady in the conversation. 

 

“Your poomsae suffered for it, but your sparring was good.  Coach Ulaz is already making notes on the videos.” 

 

“Thank you, sir.” 

 

Master Kolivan’s eyes scanned over the table before settling on Lance, who was still staring up at him like he was seeing a ghost.  “You’re the young man who proposed this bet, correct?” he asked, and Lance made a face like he was trying to remember to breathe. 

 

“Yes, I, um, yes sir, it was just a-”

 

“It was quite funny,” Master Kolivan said, and Lance’s eyes widened in surprise.  “Master Lee was too hard on you. You made fun out of an uncomfortable situation, and you ought to be proud of yourself.” 

 

Lance couldn’t seem to choke out any words at that, and Kolivan turned his attention to Shiro and Allura.  He rested a hand on her shoulder, explaining how he hadn’t gotten the chance to review her competition yet, and asked how Shiro’s arm was fairing with the stormy weather.  After a short conversation and a polite goodbye, the five of them were left alone once again at their table. 

 

Pidge picked a fry off of Lance’s plate and bit off half of it.  “Stop being such a drama queen,” he said, and Lance scoffed, deflating like an old balloon. 

 

“I thought he was going to  _ kill me _ ,” Lance gushed. 

 

Shiro shrugged one shoulder and stole a fry as well, dipping it in his milkshake.  Shiro was a firm believer in diet and exercise, but post-tournament meals would always been free game.  “Master Kolivan is a cool dude,” he said. Keith wrinkled his nose up at that description, thinking Master Kolivan wouldn’t appreciate it very much.  “Most of the time.”

 

“If he yells at you, it’s cause you deserve it,” Allura teased, reaching across the table to steal Shiro’s milkshake right out of his hand.  

 

“I beg to differ.” 

 

Pidge slouched over sideways against Lance’s shoulder and said, “Better than Master Iverson.  He’s just always yelling.”

 

“He’s going to kill me,” Lance groaned, dropping his head into his hands. 

 

“ _ If _ he finds out.”

 

“How would he not find out?”

 

“He barely pays attention, you know that.  The last time he actually reviewed your XMA routine was like four years ago.” 

 

“What, really?” Keith asked, surprised.  They rarely got that chance at Marmora. Even during open mat practices, there was someone watching.  Instructors were always there to take notes and give advice, and  _ every _ form that went to tournaments was scrutinized closely, if not half-choreographed by the instructor. 

 

Except for Keith’s latest one, but he’d told a few white lies to get himself here.  He’d been genuinely surprised that Kolivan hadn’t confronted him on that, but maybe he was letting it slide this time.  Maybe he was giving Keith a second chance. 

 

Keith decided not to push his luck any farther. 

 

“He barely even pays attention to my teaching, anymore,” Lance said with a shrug, making grabby hands for the milkshake in Allura’s hand and taking a long slurp of it when it was granted to him.  “The only feedback I get is testing. If it weren’t for the yelling, I’d think he’d forgotten I’m even there.” 

 

“You teach your own classes?” Shiro asked, surprise evident in his raised eyebrows.  Lance froze. He passed the milkshake on to Pidge and frowned. 

 

“Surprised?” he asked, voice defensive, but Shiro was quick to subdue the situation. 

 

He smiled and gently said, “No.  You’re very talented, and you deserve to teach.” 

 

Pidge talked around the straw in his mouth, apparently determined to finish the communal milkshake.  He said, “Lance is great with the kids, it’s his calling. He dropped out of college to teach, y’know.” 

 

The milkshake sloshed over the edge of the cup and onto Pidge’s shirt as Lance elbowed him, hard enough to be surprising.  He hissed, “ _ Pidge _ .”  Pidge turned a glare back on him. 

 

“ _ What? _ ” he hissed back. 

 

“We should probably head out of here,” Shiro announced standing and stretching his arm above his head with a yawn.  “It’s a long drive back. Mom and Dad should be getting home tonight.” He ruffled Keith’s hair, and Keith swatted his hand away, annoyed. 

 

Lance sighed and said, “Yeah, let’s go.” They carried their receipts up to the front counter to pay before leaving.  

 

As they were heading out the door, Keith fell behind a step and took Lance by the arm.  “You know, if you ever want a second opinion on your form-” 

 

Lance raised an eyebrow and scoffed, tugging his arm away.  Keith should have known better than to think they’d suddenly be good friends.  He’d almost forgotten that Lance didn’t like him. 

 

“I don’t need help.” 

 

“But if you want it….  You could come take a class at Marmora, sometime.  It could be cool.” Keith didn’t know why he was offering, or why he cared at all.  Lance side-eyed him and frowned, pursing his lips and crossing his arms.

 

“Iverson would never allow that,” he said, voice sour.  “So, thanks, but no thanks.” 

 

He sped up then, catching up with the others and wrapping Pidge up in a headlock.  Pidge squawked and swatted at him, but Lance just stole the gear bag off his shoulder and swung it onto his own, not sinking at all under the extra weight. 

 

“We’ll catch you guys later,” Lance announced, waving and dragging Pidge off towards the nearest exit.  Pidge stumbled after him, and they disappeared into the crowd. Keith watched them go, noticed a second too late that Allura was leaning over his shoulder. 

 

“I’m proud of you,” she said, resting her chin on his shoulder.  She smelled like sweat and hairspray and unwashed sparring gear. Keith smelled like he’d been run over by a garbage truck. 

 

“Why?” he asked. 

 

She hummed, vibrating against his shoulder, and said, “You made a friend.” 

 

Keith scoffed, Shiro laughed, and Allura smacked Keith on the ass before darting away.  He laughed and took off after her, sprinting through the convention center like children and tearing off down the wide hallways, Shiro’s disapproving voice shouting after them the whole way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keith's song in this is "Chandelier" and Lance's is "All I Want For Christmas Is You." When I'm back home over the summer, I'm going to choreograph and record the form Lance did, because I've been giggling over it since the first day I imagined it. 
> 
> http://wiki.wodgotham.com/index.php?title=Three-Section_Staff This is the weapon Lance was using. I have no idea how to use one, so both he and I were pulling that routine out of our asses. 
> 
> https://www.taekwondosupplies.org/shop-products/9-ring-sword/ This is the weapon Keith was using. I would love to choreograph that form as well, however I can do absolutely none of the tricks that I'm writing about, so that'll have to wait. Forever. One legged back flip?? Are you kidding me???
> 
> Also, I am not sure if there is a real person named Grand Master Lee, but if there IS, he is not the same person that was featured in this story. That is purely a coincidence, and I do not intend to write about real people who actually exist.

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Taekwondo- a korean martial art; it translates literally to "the way of hand and foot," and is known for flashy kicks and olympic sparring
> 
> Dobak- the name of the uniform. imagine a classic karate gi. Yeah, that's basically it. 
> 
> ATA- American Taekwondo Association, which is the style I started out in and the only denomination I have competed with, so that's the setting of these tournaments. Tournament procedures below.
> 
> Poom-sae/form- a performance routine; a memorized series of techniques and movements, both kicks and strikes, that are used to practice and demonstrate taekwondo. the forms that the gang are doing in this fic are quite elaborate because of their belt rank. 
> 
> This is Lance and Keith's form < https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OriI7ywrPk8 > (copy and paste. I don't know how to do hyperlinks), and this kid is WILD talented and does his form the way I imagine Keith doing it (AKA perfect). 
> 
> This is a kama XMA form < https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSCT6y3-WyI >. 
> 
> And this is an example of the fancy backflip Keith did that I only WISH I could do < https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0XZAJAsMEI >.
> 
> At ATA tournaments, poom-sae, weapons, and sparring all happen in one ring. The rings are divided by belt rank and age, (e.g., Lance, Hunk, and Keith are in 'second and third degree men's competition, ages 18-29.' Shiro, being a fourth degree, would be in 'fourth and fifth degree men's competition, ages 18-29.'). You bow in as a group. All of the poom-sae competitors go, then all the weapons competitors go, and then the sparring competitors at the end. You may do all three, or pick and choose, depending. At the end, "place slips" are given, and you take those to the awards table to exchange them for your medals. The only time medals are presented in a ceremony is at major competitions, like world championships. 
> 
> XMA takes place separately, but the awards and divisions are the same. XMA usually takes place in the morning, before traditional competition. 
> 
> Traditional competition- refers to forms, weapons, and sparring  
> Master- someone who is a sixth degree black belt (or higher) in ATA. It takes a minimum of twenty years to reach mastership. Once you do, you are no longer Mr. Whateveryourlastnameis, or M(r)s. Whateveryourlastnameis, you're MASTER Whateveryourlastnameis. Some instructors only allow their students to call them "master," and some lower-rank instructors only allow their students to call them "sir" (or "ma'am" I guess, but I haven't met any of them yet).
> 
> Everyone in taekwondo refers to others as 'sir' or 'ma'am' as a sign of respect, despite belt rank or instructor status. 
> 
> You can be an instructor as young as first degree black belt, though it is rare for someone to run their own academy before having a third degree.
> 
> ....
> 
>  
> 
> If anything is unclear, let me know and I'll add it. Comments make my day :) Come talk to me about taekwondo


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